


Chicken Soup and Cuddles for the Sick Soul

by Peanut_Butter_and_Jamilton



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Adorable, Alternate Universe - College/University, Cuddling & Snuggling, Domestic Fluff, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, M/M, Nausea, Roommates, Sweet, Vomiting, and they were ROOMMATES, kinda graphic but I’m desensitized so like, sick!fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-12
Updated: 2020-07-12
Packaged: 2021-03-04 21:35:59
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,146
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25223260
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Peanut_Butter_and_Jamilton/pseuds/Peanut_Butter_and_Jamilton
Summary: Alexander was sick, no matter how much he just wanted to get up and go to class he couldn’t. He’d resigned himself to suffering alone, when his roommate and rival, Thomas Jefferson, returned to their dorm.
Relationships: Alexander Hamilton/Thomas Jefferson
Comments: 16
Kudos: 323





	Chicken Soup and Cuddles for the Sick Soul

**Author's Note:**

> Un-beta’d as usual. I already had this written but I tagged and titled it just now, I haven’t slept in a long ass time, not sure how long. Either way, enjoy! 
> 
> Let me know if I can improve in any way, thanks for reading!

Alexander Hamilton was stubborn, it was common knowledge. He barely slept, barely ate—it was a wonder he wasn’t sick more often. When he was, however, he barely acknowledged it. He dosed himself up with the maximum amount of cold medicine, went to class, and continued his unhealthy habits without a care.

Salty tears stung his cheeks, flooding his eyes despite all his attempts to stop it. He gagged into the toilet, draped over it. He was sweating, his head felt like cotton. He could barely even breathe properly, too busy wheezing.

He couldn’t go to class like this, he knew Washington would just kick him out if he even tried.

“Hamilton!” The door to his dorm slammed over, and he groaned, which translates into a fit of dry-heaving. Of course, his asshole of a roommate, Thomas Jefferson, and he didn’t sound happy. This time the voice came right outside the bathroom door, it was a little more hesitant. “Hamilton?”

Alexander had nothing else to throw up, nothing except stomach acid, which the next fit contained just to spite him. Their bathroom door opened, and he only had the strength to raise his head and glare half-heartedly at Jefferson before he was back to gagging. He didn’t want Thomas Jefferson of all people, the pompous ass, to see him weak. He would lord it over him forever. “Christ, Hamilton, you been drinking?” Jefferson asked, crossing his arms and leaning against the doorway. While it wasn’t exactly a strange conclusion, Alexander felt a rush of pure annoyance at the notion.

“ _Sick,”_ he stressed, he coughed at the effort of speaking, and fought to quell the nausea clinging thickly to his throat and stomach. He was thankful when he heard footsteps and glanced up to see Jefferson gone. He felt a little less bad about slumping back away from the toilet, against the back wall. His eyes fell shut, and he tried to ignore how cold he felt. He knew it was a fever, he could feel his hair clinging to his forehead with sweat.

“Rinse your damn mouth,” he blinked, squinting against the bright bathroom light. Jefferson was crouched in front of him, holding a glass of water. He took the glass, but his hands were shaking too bad and he ended up wearing some of it instead. 

Jefferson sighed and took it back, then surprisingly held it up for Hamilton to drink. He glared for a second, before reluctantly opening his mouth. Thankfully, he actually seemed to know what he was doing because barely any water reached him, just enough to be able to swish his mouth with, but not enough for him to choke.

It felt nice, leaning forward to spit it out, taking along with it some of the acidic taste. He flushed the toilet absently, before continuing to dry heave over nothing. 

He was crying again, it hurt and he couldn’t stop, could barely breathe between gags, and through the spinning in his head, all he could think of was his mother. 

A hand rested on his back hesitantly, it started lightly, just barely brushing against him, then it came to rest completely on him, settling. It was a comforting weight, and he couldn’t even bring himself to care that it was Thomas Jefferson, his enemy, and rival.

He was exhausted, he just wanted to sleep, something he never really tended to want. Usually, he avoided sleeping at all costs, but right now he just wanted to stop the pounding in his head. He panted softly and leaned back against the wall, absently bringing up a shaking hand to wipe the tears from his face.

“How long have you been throwing up?” Jefferson asked, and he whimpered slightly. Eventually, he just shrugged, he didn’t even know the current time.

“I don’t know,” he whispered, his voice was hoarse and raw. “I came in here around ten this morning.” He vividly remembered the stark red letters on the alarm clock as he had burst from his bed into a run for the bathroom. He’d already expelled everything left in his stomach, so for the rest of the time, he’d just been left gagging.

“Christ, Hamilton,” the drawl in his tone was oddly comforting to listen to—or maybe that was just him being sick and his head spinning and twisting. He flinched when the glass was pressed to his lips again. “You need water, you’re probably dehydrated. This is really bad.” He drank the water slowly, trying not to upset his rolling stomach further. This time he swallowed it instead of spitting it out.

He threw up the water.

“We need to get you to a hospital if you can’t keep water down, you need an IV.” Then, Alexander panicked. He jerked away roughly, smacking into the sink counter and let out a fearful wail. No, no, no he couldn’t go to a hospital, not again. His mother had died in a hospital, the hurricane and the aftermath in the hospital, trying to resuscitate his cousin in the hospital, even though they all knew it was too late-

He didn’t even realize he was speaking, a steady stream of, “no, no, please no, no hospital please, no,” until Jefferson spoke up, sounding a little dumbfounded.

“Okay! Okay, Hamil- Alexander. No hospital, just breathe, okay?” He did the opposite, actually, held his breath for a good ten seconds before releasing it. He forced himself to calm down, for his racing heart to slow. No hospital, good.

He couldn’t go back there, couldn’t deal with white walls that closed in on him, beeping machines, the scent of disinfectant. Especially not when he was sick. He hated hospitals, every bad thing in his life had eventually ended with the hospital in one way or another. He couldn’t go, not again. If he ever went to the hospital again it was because he was dying, and Alexander Hamilton _wasn’t_ going to die.

Jefferson sighed and stood, then he was reaching down for Alex, who shrunk away slightly. “Come on, Let’s get you to bed before you pass out or something.” He didn’t bother waiting for permission, just grabbed Alexander from beneath his arms, and lifted him into a standing position. His stomach rolled, but he forced himself not to gag, to listen to the voice echoing in his ear to stop the dizziness slightly, to ignore the way his whole body trembled and his vision was swimming. “Christ, you need to eat more, I could probably pick you up and feel almost nothing,” normally Alexander would have a retort to that, but he came up with nothing but a whimper.

His arm was slung around a waist, and he was shifted so they were side by side. The arm tightening around his own waist was probably the only thing keeping him standing. He was guided into their shared room, and settled down onto his bed. It felt nice to sink into the comfortable blankets with a sigh, and Jefferson watched him absently for a moment, before pulling up their trash can beside his bed. Alex watched him, getting curled up in the blankets gratefully.

He fell asleep before he even had the chance to say anything.

  
  


When Alexander awoke, it was to the delightful smell of soup. He hadn’t even realized how hungry he was, or how long it had been since he’d eaten until he smelled it. He blinked, forcing his heavy eyelids open, and watched as Jefferson of all people stepped into the room. He was carrying a steaming bowl of what he had to imagine was probably the soup, and a glass of water. He set the soup on the desk, then sat down on the bed next to Alex, who moved to make more room.

Alexander forced himself to sit up, thankful that the nausea had let up a little, and took the water with a grateful noise. He sipped at it slowly, thankful that his dry mouth calmed some, replaced with a semblance of normalcy. He took a moment to glance at the clock, and frowned.

“Don’t you have class?” He asked, running through the other man’s schedule in his mind. Jefferson just raised an eyebrow.

“Would you rather I leave so you can sit here and suffer?” He drawled sarcastically, and took the glass of water from Alex’s hands.

Surprisingly, he laughed slightly, watching the Virginian stand and grab the soup from the desk. “No thanks,” his voice was still hoarse, but it had calmed slightly now that he’d had something to drink. Thomas sat down again, and Alexander wondered when it had become Thomas instead of Jefferson. He passed over the soup, which was actually just broth.

“Go on, get some kind of nutrients in you, self-destructive asshole,” however, something about his tone and his eyes told Alex he was amused with the situation, so he smiled back.

“How do I know it isn’t poisoned?” But he took a bite anyways, hating quite suddenly just how bland being sick made everything taste. It was just like hot water, so thankfully his stomach didn’t protest too much, and he risked a second bite.

Thomas snorted, “You looking to be poisoned?” He asked, then shuffled back, nudging Alex’s legs back so he could lean against the wall. It was strangely nice, having his legs pinned between the wall and his enemy… former enemy? He wasn’t so sure anymore, his world had just been tilted on its head. Either way, he was warm, and Alexander appreciated it, considering he was absolutely freezing despite the two blankets piled on top of him.

“I already feel poisoned, you sure you haven’t had any contact with my food recently?” He managed about seven bites before he couldn’t stomach any more, and shot him an apologetic look. He managed to set it on the little end table pressed up behind his headboard. Suddenly, he didn’t want Thomas to get up. The warmth seeping through the blankets was nice.

“What food?” Thomas raised an eyebrow, and he actually looked… concerned. Alex flushed and glanced away. He knew he didn’t eat enough, but he was a broke college student running on a scholarship, not only that, but even when he did have food he was usually too busy to eat it. He didn’t have time for this, didn’t even have time to be sick right now. He needed to be writing, he had papers to work on, and he would have to go around asking for notes, but he doubted Jefferson would agree to that. He settled for staring at the blankets, which were both patternless. He’d got them cheap and on sale, he had another blanket, one he never dared use. It had been his mother’s. They’d been curled up under it when she died.

He swallowed the lump in his throat and forced himself to straighten up and speak. “I eat, I’ve always been small for my age,” he hated admitting that. He knew why he was so short, but he didn’t blame his mother, she’d done her best to provide for him no matter what. He would always be shorter, smaller than his peers, and even now he didn’t need to eat much before he was full, so barely eating for him was hardly eating for a healthy human being.

“Alexander I felt your ribs through your shirt, that’s not being small for your age. Don’t think I’m above force-feeding you, especially while you’re sick. Also, don’t think I don’t know your weird sleep schedule either, I wake up to you typing at all hours of the night.” He glanced up sharply, trying to force back the retort in his throat.

“Why?” It didn’t work. “Why are you doing this? You hate me, why do you care about me being healthy or not?” He knew he wasn’t healthy, didn’t need anyone to remind him. He didn’t have the time, he was running out of time. So many people around him had died young, he couldn’t let it happen to him. He couldn’t die before he’d made history, before he’d made a name for himself, secured his legacy. No one would tell the story of some random college kid, no matter how smart he was.

Thomas seemed taken aback slightly, eyes widening. “I don’t hate you, Alexander,” his voice came out surprisingly soft, and Alex almost flinched at that. It was news to him, since the day they’d met in class, got into the biggest argument he’d ever had in his life, where he finally felt evenly matched, he’d thought he was hated. They disagreed on everything, they constantly argued, Jefferson got a kick out of putting his things on high shelves and snickering when he couldn’t reach them. “I’ve never _hated_ you. You’re infuriating, sure, and you worry me all the time nearly passing out in class, but I could never hate you.”

“Oh,” For once, Alexander Hamilton was speechless. He didn’t know what to say to that, how was he meant to respond? His head was still fuzzy and he was tired, he didn’t know how to answer that, he felt like it was a more intimate admission than the words should have made it. He didn’t even find a witty comeback when he scoured his brain. “I-I don’t hate you either,” he hadn’t meant to say it, but he didn’t want Thomas to think he did. He really didn’t, never had. He even liked him, a far cry from hate.

Thomas smiled slightly, but stood to mask it. “Get some sleep, Alexander, for once in your life.” He couldn’t argue with that, and settled back down, curled in the blankets. He watched him gather the soup and the water up, and leave the room.

His feet felt startlingly cold.

  
  


He was gagging again, this time into the trash can instead of the toilet. He wasn’t aware that Thomas was even really there until his hair was being peeled away from his face and held up. God, he hated throwing up, everything ached and burned. It was hard to breathe, and stomach acid would leave lingering damage. “Fucking hell,” he whispered between gags, his fingers curled so tightly around the edge of the trashcan they turned white.

When he finished his mouth was being wiped with what he figured was probably a napkin, then Thomas was above him, pushing him back down to lay down. He was wearing his glasses, his hair was tied back, so he was probably working. Alex felt bad for interrupting.

He shivered, and Thomas sighed, heading across the room back to his bed. He returned with his own blankets. Alex wanted to protest, he really did, but he was tired and cold, and the blankets made him feel warmer. Then, Thomas sat down on the bed with him, scooching his feet against the wall and leaning over them so his back rested against the wall. He tucked his feet up, laptop on his knees, and began working on what Alex imagined was a paper or an assignment. It was nice.

He fell asleep to the sound of a keyboard clicking.

  
  


When he awoke next it was to pain. It twisted and writhed in his stomach, sharp and stabbing like a knife. He curled up with a groan, and the slight pressure of his hands eased the pain, if only slightly. He could feel eyes on him, but he didn’t really care, he was in so much _pain._

He felt Thomas stand, and couldn’t fight the strangled whimper.

His head was lifted suddenly, and his pillow was replaced by a warm lap. Hands carded through his hair absently, and he buried his face in the warmth. God it hurt, he wondered if the agony would ever end.

He tried to force himself to sleep to escape the stabbing pains in his stomach.

  
  


He awoke to darkness. His face was buried into a warm thigh, and when he glanced around he could see only moonlight filtering through the blind slats. Thomas was asleep, he could tell by the steady breathing. He couldn’t help but snuggle closer. His mouth was dry and he needed water, but if he reached for it he would wake him up, which Alex wanted to avoid at all costs. He was comfortable, and the hand on his head was nice, warm even if he wasn’t moving.

Alexander slipped back to sleep.

  
  


Thomas was humming, that much he could tell as he slipped to the land of the living. It was nice, a tune he didn’t recognize, but that didn’t really matter. He just wanted to sleep and relax, his head was still fuzzy, and while his stomach no longer ached, it was still rolling uncomfortably. “I know you’re not asleep anymore,” Thomas said, but he surprisingly didn’t stop running his hands through Alex’s hair. Thankfully, Alex wasn’t about to admit that he loved it. 

Having his crush (and now that he was far too exhausted emotionally to deny it, he would admit internally that he had a crush) so close, taking care of him—it was like a dream come true. He sighed softly and leaned into it. He was tired, he wanted to continue sleeping.

“Come on, you need water and meds, then I’ll let you sleep again. Sit up.” Alexander debated refusing, but he didn’t doubt he would just be picked up anyways, and sat up with a sigh. Didn’t stop him from bracing his weight against Thomas, though, even when he leaned over to grab a glass of water and a bottle of what Alex assumed was medication. 

First, he was handed water and drank that gratefully in small sips, then he watched as Thomas measured some out into a little medicine cup. He took it without complaint. 

“Now can I go back to sleep? I’m tired,” he didn’t even wait for an answer, just flipped onto his other side and laid his head back into a warm lap, pressing his nose against Thomas’ stomach. He was tired and he just wanted to feel warm. 

Alexander was sick for three days, all the while Thomas skipped his classes to take care of him. He emailed both of their professors to let them know they would be missing a little bit, claiming they were roommates and got each other sick. He made Alexander soup, held his hair when he threw up. At night they cuddled. They didn’t talk about it once morning passed, but eventually, Thomas got tired of sleeping sitting up, and started falling asleep laying down, curled around him. 

Sleeping in a separate bed was never a consideration.

It really wasn’t a surprise when Thomas got sick as well. 

Alexander frowned softly as he held his hair back, watching him drape himself over the toilet.

No, it really wasn’t a surprise, but he didn’t mind.


End file.
